


Tommy Played Guitar

by PacificRimbaud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Good Tom Riddle, Swearing, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud
Summary: Tom Riddle takes his coffee black and plays in a rock and roll band.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 47
Kudos: 370
Collections: 2020 DBQ Round Two: Charms





	Tommy Played Guitar

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2020Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2020Round2) collection. 



> Disclaimer:  
> The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. The theme for this round of the competition was Charms and my chosen pairing was Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle.  
> Comments/reviews are encouraged by the Slytherin Cabal's Admin Team on all stories in Death By Quill, but comments left by readers are set to be moderated by story authors until the end of the competition in order to protect participants' anonymity.  
> Thank you to my beta for their time and help.

“I’m all about purity.”

Hermione snorts. “In what sense.”

Tom settles back against the rear counter and continues twisting a paperclip with the set of needle nose pliers that belongs to the espresso machine. “You know Dziga Vertov? _Man with a Movie Camera_?”

Hermione's an International Studies major, so she could tell him about the rise of China as a semi-peripheral state, but she doesn’t know the first thing about movie cameras. “No, I don’t.”

He pauses mid-twist. “Is this interesting to you?”

“Yes. Keep going, please. I asked,” she says, tamping ground coffee into the portafilter with a turn of her wrist.

“Pure cinema. The focus should be on cinematography, sound design, editing.” His voice is authoritative, like he’s used to being listened to, though he's the same age as Hermione. “Dialogue is supportive. You don’t lean on it. Hitchcock was grounded in that ideology.”

He’s tall and a little thin, and his movements are relaxed and precise as he sets his project aside. He pushes off the counter and lifts the pour-over coffeemaker off the top of the cup of medium roast Costa Rican he’s making for himself. 

“Can you give me an example?” Hermione asks. She watches her shots pour, then dumps them into a paper cup and tops them off with screaming hot water before setting it at the end of the bar.

“How much dialogue do you remember from _Psycho_?”

Hermione considers. “Maybe one or two lines.”

Tom nods. “Now think about scenes without dialogue.”

Driving in the rain. Peering through a hole in the wall. Taking a shower. She could go on.

“So it’s pure in the sense that it emphasizes the aspects of film that are unique to the medium,” says Hermione. “And you make your projects like that?”

“I try to.” Tom picks up his pliers again and twists the wire carefully.

She doesn't watch his hands—with prominent veins and a collection of silver rings on strong, articulate fingers—while he works.

He smirks and looks at her sidelong. “Hermione Granger, the smartest kid in class."

She bites back a smile of her own as she trails behind the last customer to flip the open sign to closed. “Machine or floors?”

“Machine.”

Once his coffee cup is down to the dregs, he back-flushes the heads on the La Marzocco while Hermione pulls up the mats and sweeps up mounds of coffee dust.

Sitting on top of the till, there’s a tiny, perfect gestural sculpture of a tea cup, made from a twisted paper clip. It has an extra loop at the top, like a charm.

He’s in back, killing the lights, when she slips it in her pocket.

* * *

“He’s _super_ charming.”

Lavender’s a morning person, and tips on the Saturday opening shift are great.

“You think so?” Hermione asks.

“Are you kidding me?” Lavender counts off on her fingers. “One, he’s in a band. Automatically hot.”

"Hot isn’t the same thing as charming.”

“Two, he’s an artist.”

“He’s in film school."

Lavender ignores her and opens a tin of chamomile tea. “And you've seen him talk to girls. He, like, ensorcells them.”

"That's vaguely threatening."

Lavender pours hot water into her cup. “You know what I mean. Based on what I’ve heard he has no trouble charming whoever and whatever he wants.”

"What have you heard?” Hermione jams her face into her cup of coffee to hide an involuntary, nervous smile.

Lavender looks at her thoughtfully. “He’s playing a show next Friday. We should go.” She uses her _fun_ tone, the one that makes things that Hermione probably won’t enjoy sound appealing.

“You’re joking. It’s a metal band, right?"

Lavender shakes her head. “No, it’s metal influenced at most. Maybe he'll charm you"—her eyebrows rise, then, unthinkably, they waggle—"against your will.”

For reasons she refuses to interrogate, a massive shiver runs down Hermione's spine and lodges in her loins.

“We work together, Lav. We talk. No one's ensorcelling anyone."

“If you say so. But I've heard he has a great penis.”

Hermione throws a bar towel at her and misses by a mile.

* * *

“What makes a penis _great_?”

Harry lifts his head from his place at the end of Hermione’s bed. “Is this a rhetorical question?”

“You’re drunk.” Hermione taps the remote against her knee. “Why are you in my room?”

“Your TV is better than mine.”

“True. Is it about length? Girth? Fortitude?”

“Whose penis are we talking about?” Harry rotates on his belly like a seal until his head is on the pillow that Hermione doesn’t use.

“No one's.”

He grabs his beer, and as he takes a long swallow, he peers at a group of tiny objects arranged on the nightstand. “What are these?” He pinches at one several times before he manages to pick it up. “Like a little charm. Oh! It’s a cup.” He sets it down, and picks up another. “And this looks like a . . . like a tiara. For a princess.” He sets it on top of his head.

“Yes.” She leans over and snatches it away.

“And you’ve got . . . what is this? An octagon? Like, ‘Stop!’ Okay. A ring. A book! This one's my favorite.” He rolls 360 degrees on his longitudinal axis for no discernible reason. “These are incredible. What are they made out of?”

Hermione clicks the television on. “Paper clips.”

“Did you make them?”

“No.”

“What are we watching, anyway?”

She pushes _Play_. “ _Rear Window._ ”

* * *

“I’m going to your show on Friday.” The second the words fall out of her mouth, she wants to pick them up and shove them back inside.

Tom is bent over, messing with the in-store radio. “Ramones station?”

The Ramones station is fine. “Yeah. Lavender wants to go, so I said I’d go with her.”

He stands back up and looks at her. “Cool.”

“Is it metal?”

“My band?" The corner of Tom’s mouth twitches. “Not exactly.”

“Oh. I have a lot of homework this weekend. We probably won’t stay for the whole show.”

He moves toward her, and Hermione realizes too late that she’s leaning against the counter directly under the cupboard where the pour-over coffeemakers live. Before she can move, he grasps the edge of the counter next to her right hip, and she’s fixated on— _cannot possibly_ look away from—the tattoo on the inside of his left arm of a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth.

“Excuse my reach,” he says, and she’s so overwhelmed by the proximity of his chest and a maddening glimpse of skin between his black leather belt and the hem of his black t-shirt and his Adam’s apple and the way his black hair falls across his forehead and his _reportedly, allegedly quote-unquote great penis_ that she doesn’t move an inch while he reaches over her head.

And then he’s gone, setting up his pour-over next to the machine with his back facing her. “It’s cool that you’re coming,” he says without turning around. “Do you have tickets?”

“No. We’ll buy them at the door.”

Tom’s back shakes with a fragment of a laugh. “I’ll leave you a pair at will call.”

Later, while Hermione scrubs at the built-up grounds in the espresso machine, Tom bends a paperclip into a curving S and leaves it on the till.

It’s only when Hermione pulls it out of her pocket at home that she realizes it’s a snake.

* * *

He’s not in some random metal band.

He’s headlining a sold-out show at the packed ballroom where she's sweating through the fabric of a poorly chosen black dress.

“How did I not know about this?” Hermione shouts at Lavender while a four-piece punk group called The Marauders plays through their opening set.

Lavender laughs. “I have no idea. I thought you were, like, playing dumb.”

"I thought he was in one of those bands that says they're going to get together for practice but never actually does."

“Oh my God. You’re adorably out of it sometimes,” Lavender says, laughing so hard she sloshes white wine out of her clear plastic cup onto the floor. “He’s huge. I don't mean in the penis way, although . . . " She does the bad thing with her eyebrows again.

"We're not talking about that. I have to work with him."

"I think you mean _work him."_ Lavender makes an unsubtle gesture with her loosely closed fist.

"I'm going to sue you if you don’t stop doing that."

"Fine. But in the sense that he’s kind of super, very, locally famous, yeah. He's huge. Did all the girls blushing into their Americanos not tip you off?”

Hermione feels globally irritated. "I assumed it was because he's . . . not unattractive."

Before she can slosh the rest of her wine, Lavender drinks it down. "New plan. You're buying a t-shirt."

"I don't wear band t-shirts."

And yet, Hermione finds herself looking over a table full of merchandise for Tom’s band, Theft of Death.

She picks up a vinyl album with a solid black cover called _The Killing Curse_ , then puts it back down.

"Get the shirt with the logo," says Lavender.

"You mean the skull with the snake?"

"Yeah. Hey!" Lavender waves at the guy selling merch. "She wants a black Dark Mark shirt in medium and she's going to sleep with it. In it. With him. In her."

Lavender's drunk.

Hermione buys the t-shirt, shoves it in her bag, then buys herself a plastic cup of wine to cope with her embarrassment.

It takes half an hour for The Marauders’ gear to be cleared away and for Theft of Death to fiddle with their pedals and plug their instruments into the sound system.

When Tom walks onstage, a wave of enthusiastic shouts rolls across the room, which he ignores.

He’s wearing a black tie, a black button-up shirt and black pants. Hermione is discomforted that watching him run lengths of audio cable through his ring-covered fingers, strap a black guitar over his shoulder, and pause to listen to a man holding a bass feels hypnotizing.

She realizes far, far too late that she is, in fact, hopelessly charmed by Tom Riddle.

He leans into his mic once the lights fall again, and says “Thank you for coming. We’re Theft of Death.” Then the drummer snaps against the rim of his snare and drives the kick in a soft, regular thump.

Hermione isn’t as knowledgeable about music as she’d like to be, but even if the image of Tom's fingers wrapped around the neck of a guitar wasn't sending jolts of electricity along every nerve in her body, she'd like what he's playing.

It's dark, a little heavy, and moody beyond belief, and Tom’s voice when it drops down the head of the mic and comes through the loudspeakers is low and melodic.

He mostly keeps his eyes on his instrument, or on the pedals, but when he does look up at the sea of bodies he looks unsettled.

It isn’t until he shields his eyes from the stage lights that Hermione understands he’s looking for someone.

Lavender leans in close. "If Tom Riddle ever looked at me the way he looks at you, I'd let him impregnate me over the dish sink."

The voltage under Hermione’s skin leaps, and she gapes at Lavender with disbelief. “He almost _never_ looks at me.”

Lavender does a sort of spit-laugh. "So incredibly smart, and _so_ completely out of it. It's cute."

“I guess I'm driving your car," says Hermione.

“Yeah.” Lavender points at the stage. “Unless I make it happen with the drummer.”

And she does.

Hermione has every intention of being long gone when Tom’s set is done, but she’s still in the room when he unstraps his guitar and leaves the stage, gleaming with sweat. Then without understanding how it happens, she's standing in a muraled alleyway beside Theft of Death’s black Ford E series van, and Lavender is using her _sex_ voice, which sounds a lot like her _fun_ voice, on a guy named Abraxas who has a tattoo of a raven on his neck.

She's planning to drive Lavender’s car home herself, but then Abraxas has the keys, people are talking about space in cars, she’s taking a short ride without a seat belt in the back of the van, then she's sitting in Tom Riddle’s 1967 black fastback Mustang, and he’s driving her home.

“What did you think?” He’s half smiling, with his fingers curled around the wheel of his car.

“Good. You’re really good."

 _Good_ doesn’t begin to cover the way she feels about watching Tom sweat and play music. Hermione tucks her hands between her knees and turns toward the window.

She forgets to tell Tom where to turn three times before they finally pull into a parking spot near the entrance to her apartment building.

He leaves the engine running, and Hermione's about to get out when he says, “I’m glad you came to the show.”

She turns to him.

He’s still a bit frayed from his time on stage. The sweat has dried, but his black hair is in waves, and there’s a perfect, loose curl hanging down over his left eyebrow.

Hermione slides back into her seat. “So am I.” She dips her head down and folds and unfolds her fingers before looking back up. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know what?”

“That it was like that.” She means his band. And that he’s maybe semi-completely locally famous. That in addition to the already virtuosic film shorts she’s well aware he makes, and maybe once or twice or four times has watched at the student film festival, he has a bit of a cult following as a rock musician.

Tom reaches forward and turns off the engine.

“Yeah. I could tell you didn’t know.” He speaks quietly, and looks slightly amused.

His eyes are so brown they look nearly black, but in the dark space between the light from the street lamp on the corner and the fixture in the entryway of her apartment, she truly can’t tell where his irises end and his pupils begin.

She sits still and waits, and when nothing happens, she takes a slow breath.

She’s about to turn and leave the car when he says, calmly, neutrally, without the slightest hint of any tension, “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

She feels her stomach drop. What was she expecting?

“Are you closing?” He always closes.

“Yeah.”

She's going to go.

She is.

And then she doesn't.

She fixates on the black stone set in the ring on the middle finger of his right hand, and then she stares at the soft curve of his bottom lip, and then she launches herself across the car and presses her mouth to the mouth of the boy she's definitely in no way secretly stared at for months.

Her eyes are closed, but they snap open when he doesn’t move. His hands are still on the steering wheel of his car and Hermione is pulling back and looking at his black eyes and calculating the time it will take her to find a new job when he grasps the back of her neck and draws her in again.

This time it's searing and indecent, and despite being sober, Hermione feels out of control.

His hands are polite, but when his tongue demonstrates what it’s capable of in teasing strokes, she reaches down and with unsteady fingers undoes his belt buckle.

She has no idea what she’s doing.

They’re in his car, and they've barely kissed, but her hand is wrapped around him and oh, _God,_ it's such a great penis.

Tom groans when her mouth leaves his, only to moan into the dark when she wraps her lips around his cock.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” he whispers, and she knows it’s a lot, it’s _too much,_ _too fast_ but she doesn’t care until he pulls her back by her hair.

He looks feral, predatory, and her lips are wet, her eyes must be glass, and she’s actually _panting_ when he asks, “Is this all you want to do tonight?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Wincing, he tucks himself away while she gets out of the car.

He's not far behind. Before she's entered the last two digits into the keypad at the entry, his left arm is wrapped tight around her waist and his right hand is dragging slowly up the inside of her thigh.

The lock opens with an audible click just as she gasps at his touch.

They tumble up the stairs, their backs finding the walls, and on the way he learns how to make her knees quiver. In turn, she strokes him through the fabric of his pants until he whines.

They crash through the door into her apartment, and knock over a lamp.

“Do we need to be quiet?” he asks while she unbuttons his shirt, and she shakes her head.

“Harry works late.”

He pulls back and looks at her warily.

She laughs. “He’s my roommate. We’re good friends, it’s not like that.”

He practically lunges at her, and by the time they reach her bedroom door she’s running her fingers over the hard surface of his belly and undoing his buckle again.

On her bed, he hitches her legs over his shoulders and uses his mouth until she’s panting and pulling his hair so hard it must hurt, then he stops and sits back on his heels.

“Condom?”

While she pulls open the drawer to her nightstand, he takes off the rest of his clothes and draws the zipper down the back of her dress.

When he’s sheathed and she’s nude, he brings his mouth to her ear.

“Can I be in control? Nothing intense.”

She nods. She’d give him anything at all, just please put that truly great . . .

His hands move her until she’s on her knees and gripping the top of her headboard, and he shifts into the space behind her.

He kisses the corner of her jaw, then speaks softly. “Is this a position you like?”

"Yes."

Her moan is a little desperate and so is his when he pushes inside.

He’s not rough, and his hands are practiced wherever they wander—to her breasts, her throat, dipping into her mouth, between her legs. She reaches down to feel the rings on his fingers while he touches her.

He talks while he fucks, and hums in approval every time she cries out when she gets close and he pulls her back.

“Do you want to come?” he whispers, finally. They’re both drenched from exertion.

And she does. She wants it so much she begs.

He gets her off so hard her vision blurs, and she knows the neighbors have heard. He smiles down on her, pleased with her, or himself, or the both of them, before leaning forward and speeding up his hips.

He kisses her deeply while he comes.

She wonders, once they’re tangled together, gratified and still, what’s going to happen next.

He says nothing, barely moves, and then casually reaches over to the nightstand.

Hermione realizes, opens her mouth to explain . . .

“The cup is my favorite.” He turns the teacup charm in his fingers, then puts it down. He looks at her with tired, satisfied eyes. “I was going to wait until I asked you out, but . . .” He glances down at their naked bodies and laughs. "Oops." He rolls away and reaches over the side of the bed, searching for something in his clothes.

“Here.” He lies back down and drops a length of cool metal into Hermione’s hand.

She unfurls it.

It’s a chain of pretty metal loops—a bracelet—and dangling from one loop is a charm in the shape of the letter _H._

He tucks his arm behind Hermione's head. “I can put the other charms on it if you have pliers.”

Hermione stares at it. “Is this made out of . . .”

“Paper clips, yeah. I had to do the bracelet at home. I needed a wire cutter.”

She sits up on one elbow and looks down at him. “You made the charms for me?”

Tom shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “Yeah, who did you think I made them for?” He frowns in mock injury. “I put my soul into those, you know.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Tom closes his eyes. “Say you’re my girlfriend, then we can dominate the world together.”

Hermione laughs. “World domination. Easy.”

He opens one eye. “If you want, obviously. No pressure.”

“Lavender wasn't kidding. You're pretty charming.”

“I am. Hey, where are you going?”

Hermione leaves the bed. “You'll see.”

She digs in her bag and retrieves her Theft of Death t-shirt. As she walks back to bed, she pulls it over her head. “What do you think?”

Tom’s eyes are open wide. “I like that. Very much.”

“Would you say I’m charming?” she asks as she crawls over the bed.

Tom grasps her shirt, and pulls her close.

“I'd say you've destroyed me.”


End file.
